


Sometimes you go down wrong

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's concussed. But he says it's okay because he's had so much practice. Sam thinks he's an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes you go down wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my hc_bingo 2013 card, prompt 'head trauma'. Can be read with your Wincest goggles on.
> 
> [Podfic performed by Sylvia_Locust available here. ](http://sylvia-locust.livejournal.com/15183.html)

One of the first things their Dad taught them was how to take a fall. 

When they were little it was mostly a game, and anyway they bounced, or that's what Bobby used to say. Nowadays they're both bigger, heavier, older, and Sam's got a knee that's almost always a mass of black and blue and has broken both his forearms multiple times each, and he knows Dean's left shoulder is a knotted wreck and he's got three crooked ribs that don't heal right any more. When they book a motel room and it's got an actual bathtub and they've got the time in between research and ass-kicking, they always rock off for the first soak. Sam makes sure to let Dean win half the time. And the point of it is, sacrificing a knee or a shoulder, taking a sprain or a less-serious break, is worth it to keep their skulls intact. 

Sam's seen enough past-their-prime hunters in his life, enough ruined ex-college football stars, enough punch-drunk back-alley boxers, to know what happens if you're not careful of your head. 

Still, sometimes you just go down wrong and all the training and all the practice in the world can't stop it. Sam's too busy putting four rounds in the chest of the shifter that threw Dean to watch his brother hit the wall, but he knows from the crunch and the way Dean doesn't immediately cuss the air blue that this is one of them. 

The shifter drops, textbook dead, and Sam's down on his bad knee, fisting his hands in Dean's shirt before he even registers what he's doing or that he's moved. Dean's awake, in that his eyes track Sam's movements, but he grins like an idiot when Sam says, 'Dean. Dean? How many fingers am I holding up? Oh fuck.'

***

Sam bundles his brother into the car, cursing the darkness and shifters that go on intercity crime sprees about equally. He needs to find somewhere with at least one goddamn lightbulb so he can get an idea of how bad Dean's hurt. He keeps fuzzing in and out of lucidity, and that's not exactly the best sign in the world.

'Sammy,' says Dean from the passenger's side, slow and syrupy like the name is a thought he's still dredging out of the back of his mind while he says it. 'Sammy, d'you kill it?'

'Yeah,' says Sam, keeping his eyes on the road. 'You distracted it good, Dean. I left half a clip behind in that corpse.'

'Awesome.' Dean's head lolls forward a little. Sam shakes him, one hand on his thigh.

'Hey, Dean. Dean. Dean, wake up. Just til I can find us somewhere to stop, check you're not bleeding on the freaking brain, dude.'

Dean blinks at him. 'You're warm.'

Sam has to smile. 'You're concussed.'

'So?' Dean says belligerently. 'Not the first time. I know what I'm doing.'

'You know what you're doing, being concussed?' Sam asks. At least if he can keep Dean arguing he's keeping him awake. There'll be a motel somewhere along this road and all he needs to do is just check, just satisfy himself that Dean doesn't have a serious injury, and then they can both sleep it all off. But for now Dean has to stay awake. 

'Dude, I have _so_ much practice at this,' Dean slurs. 'Didn't always have you around, did I. I know ...'

'Oh yeah?' Sam says, risking a glance sideways and putting his foot down a little harder. 'Yeah Dean? What do you know?' He shakes Dean's leg again.

'You,' says Dean, like he's thinking hard about it and the words aren't quite coming to him fast enough. 'You and your. You worry. And you. I'm the oldest but you always worry. I can look after myself, Sam. Sammy. _I'm_ sposed to look after _you_.'

There's a sign for a motel coming up. Sam flicks the indicators. Okay, it charges by the hour and he already knows, just looking at the flickering neons of the sign and the flaking paint as he pulls into the forecourt, how it's going to smell and that there's going to be limescale climbing the shower walls and the guy behind the desk is going to give them _that_ look, but he doesn't care right now because Dean is making cow eyes at him and either trying to push him off or trying to earnestly hold his hand. 

Sam parks and gets out, goes round and hauls Dean's ass out of the car. 'I'm supposed to look after you,' Dean insists. 

'Yeah, yeah,' says Sam. 'Can you walk on your own?'

Dean pushes off him and staggers, but doesn't quite fall. 'I'm fine,' he says. 

Awesome. Sam can already see the clerk giving them the squinty eye through the office window. 

***

The room they get has a blinking orange bulb, no shade, hanging in the middle of the room. Sam makes Dean sit on the end of one of the beds and kneels so that he can get a look into Dean's eyes without him falling over. Even so he still has to hold Dean's head up. 

Both pupils are blown huge, but they are the same size. Probably. Maybe. Dammit. Sam can't afford to be probably-maybe about that. He gets up off his knees, wincing, and Dean grabs at his wrist. 

'It's okay, I'm just gonna go get my Maglite,' Sam says, pulling free. Dean squints up at him blearily. 'It's the mood lighting in here, man, I can't get a decent read on you.' 

He keeps the beam just shy of being directly in Dean's eyes, because he hates that blinding thing doctors do and he's pretty sure Dean does as well and anyway, a Maglite is a bit overkill for this job, but he does sigh, relieved, when Dean's pupils go down to uniform pinpricks and then widen back up to normal-ish. 

'Okay, so, you're probably not bleeding on the brain,' Sam says, putting the Maglite away. 'Time for sleep.'

'Alright,' says Dean, agreeable like he almost never is when he's not suffering head trauma, and falls back against the mattress. Sam shuffles around doing the salt lines and pulling his shirt and jeans off and looking forward to doing some falling into bed himself. And he almost gets there until he remembers Dean still has his boots on. 

Sighing, Sam sits on the edge of Dean's bed, pulls Dean's ankles into his lap, and yanks the boots off. And then he figures he might as well be kind and get rid of Dean's muddy jeans and pull a blanket over him too. Dean snores all the way through, and Sam almost gets away with it but at the last moment Dean rolls over and grabs his hand.

'C'mere,' he says.

'Dean,' says Sam, protesting even though he always wants to give in when Dean's like this. It's a weakness he can't seem to shrug off - the need to hold onto Dean when one of them is hurt. They're grown men, they're too big to share a bed, but … 'Dean, c'mon. We can't -'

'Sammy,' Dean growls the way he used to when Sam was little and being ridiculous about bedtime, the way that used to come just before Sam getting put in a headlock. He yanks on Sam's hand. 'Get in here, dumbass. S'cold.'

And because Sam's weak, that's a good enough reason - if Dean's cold, Sam should fix that. Right? He shakes Dean off and crawls under the blanket. 'Move over, jerk,' he mutters.

Dean mumbles something incoherent that might just have 'bitch' embedded in it somewhere, but he does move, rolling onto his side so there's room for Sam too if Sam does the same. It's how they used to sleep when they were little, when they bounced if they fell. 

They might be older now, older and bigger and heavier, and maybe they don't bounce so good any more, but nothing else has really changed.


End file.
